The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 73

“Yeah, because it’s at the bottom of the Thames,” said Wardle.

“Course it isn’t,” said Strike. “The killer’s got it. He’ll have got it off her before he threw her into the river.”

“Fuck off!” jeered Carver, and Wardle, who had seemed interested against his better judgment, shook his head.

“Why did Landry want Rochelle there when she made the call?” Strike repeated. “Why not make it from the car? Why, when Rochelle was homeless, and virtually destitute, did she never sell her story on Landry? They’d have given her a great wad for it. Why didn’t she cash in, once Landry was dead, and couldn’t be hurt?”

“Decency?” suggested Wardle.

“Yeah, that’s one possibility,” said Strike. “The other’s that she was making enough by blackmailing the killer.”

“Boll-ocks,” moaned Carver.

“Yeah? That Muppet coat she was pulled up wearing cost one and a half grand.”

A tiny pause.

“Landry probably gave it to her,” said Wardle.

“If she did, she managed to buy her something that wasn’t in the shops back in January.”

“Landry was a model, she had inside contacts—fuck this shit,” snapped Carver, as though he had irritated himself.

“Why,” said Strike, leaning forwards on his arms into the miasma of body odor that surrounded Carver, “did Lula Landry make a detour to that shop for fifteen minutes?”

“She was in a hurry.”

“Why go at all?”

“She didn’t want to let the girl down.”

“She got Rochelle to come right across town—this penniless, homeless girl, the girl she usually gave a lift home afterwards, in her chauffeur-driven car—dragged her into a cubicle, and then walked out fifteen minutes later, leaving her to make her own way home.”

“She was a spoiled bitch.”

“If she was, why turn up at all? Because it was worth it, for some purpose of her own. And if she wasn’t a spoiled bitch, she must have been in some kind of emotional state that made her act out of character. There’s a living witness to the fact that Lula begged somebody, over the phone, to come and see her, at her flat, sometime after one in the morning. There’s also that piece of blue paper she had before she went into Vashti, and which nobody’s admitting to having seen since. What did she do with it? Why was she writing in the back of the car, before she saw Rochelle?”

“It could’ve been—” said Wardle.

“It wasn’t a fucking shopping list,” groaned Strike, thumping the desk, “and nobody writes a suicide note eight hours in advance, and then goes dancing. She was writing a bloody will, don’t you get it? She took it into Vashti to get Rochelle to witness it…”

“Bollocks!” said Carver, yet again, but Strike ignored him, addressing Wardle.

“…which fits with her telling Ciara Porter that she was going to leave everything to her brother, doesn’t it? She’d just made it legal. It was on her mind.”

“Why suddenly make a will?”

Strike hesitated and sat back. Carver leered at him.

“Imagination run out?”

Strike let out his breath in a long sigh. An uncomfortable night of alcohol-sodden unconsciousness; last night’s pleasurable excesses; half a cheese and pickle sandwich in twelve hours: he felt hollowed-out, exhausted.

“If I had hard evidence, I’d have brought it to you.”

“The odds of people close to a suicide killing themselves go right up, did you know that? This Raquelle was a depressive. She has a bad day, remembers the way out her mate took, and does a copycat jump. Which leads us right back to you, pal, persecuting people and pushing them…”

“…over the edge, yeah,” said Strike. “People keep saying that. Very poor fucking taste, in the circumstances. What about Tansy Bestigui’s evidence?”

“How many times, Strike? We proved she couldn’t have heard it,” Wardle said. “We proved it beyond doubt.”

“No you didn’t,” said Strike—finally, when he least expected it, losing his temper. “You based your whole case on one almighty fuck-up. If you’d taken Tansy Bestigui seriously, if you’d broken her down and got her to tell you the whole fucking truth, Rochelle Onifade would still be alive.”

Pulsating with rage, Carver kept Strike there for another hour. His last act of contempt was to tell Wardle to make sure he saw “Rokeby Junior” firmly off the premises.

Wardle walked Strike to the front door, not speaking.

“I need you to do something,” said Strike, halting at the exit, beyond which they could see the darkening sky.

“You’ve had enough from me already, mate,” said Wardle, with a wry smile. “I’m gonna be dealing with that,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards Carver and his temper, “for days because of you. I told you it was suicide.”

“Wardle, unless someone brings the fucker in, there are two more people in danger of being knocked off.”

“Strike…”

“What if I bring you proof that Tansy Bestigui wasn’t in her flat at all when Lula fell? That she was somewhere she could have heard everything?”

Wardle looked up towards the ceiling, and closed his eyes momentarily.

“If you’ve got proof…”

“I haven’t, but I will have in the next couple of days.”

Two men walked past them, talking, laughing. Wardle shook his head, looking exasperated, and yet he did not turn away.

“If you want something from the police, call Anstis. He’s the one who owes you.”

“Anstis can’t do this for me. I need you to call Deeby Macc.”

“What the fuck?”

“You heard me. He’s not going to take my calls, is he? But he’ll speak to you; you’ve got the authority, and it sounds as though he liked you.”

“You’re telling me Deeby Macc knows where Tansy Bestigui was when Lula Landry died?”

“No, of course he bloody doesn’t, he was in Barrack. I want to know what clothes he got sent on from Kentigern Gardens to Claridges. Specifically, what stuff he got from Guy Somé.”

Strike did not pronounce the name Ghee for Wardle.

“You want…why?”

“Because one of the runners on that CCTV footage was wearing one of Deeby’s sweatshirts.”

Wardle’s expression, arrested for a moment, relapsed into exasperation.

“You see that stuff everywhere,” he said after a moment or two. “That GS stuff. Shell suits. Trackies.”

“This was a customized hoodie, there was only one of them in the world. Call Deeby, and ask him what he got from Somé. That’s all I need. Whose side d’you want to be on if it turns out I’m right, Wardle?”

“Don’t threaten me, Strike…”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m thinking about a multiple murderer who’s walking around out there planning the next one—but if it’s the papers you’re worried about, I don’t think they’re going to go too easy on anyone who clung to the suicide theory once another body surfaced. Call Deeby Macc, Wardle, before someone else gets killed.”

11

“NO,” SAID STRIKE FORCEFULLY, ON the telephone that evening. “This is getting dangerous. Surveillance doesn’t fall within the scope of secretarial duties.”

“Nor did visiting the Malmaison Hotel in Oxford, or SOAS,” Robin pointed out, “but you were happy enough that I did both of them.”

“You’re not following anyone, Robin. I doubt Matthew would be very happy about it, either.”

It was funny, Robin thought, sitting in her dressing gown on her bed, with the phone pressed to her ear, how Strike had retained the name of her fiancé, without ever having met him. In her experience, men did not usually bother to log that kind of information. Matthew frequently forgot people’s names, even that of his newborn niece; but she supposed that Strike must have been trained to recall such details.

“I don’t need Matthew’s permission,” she said. “Anyway, it wouldn’t be dangerous; you don’t think Ursula May’s killed anyone…”

(There was an inaudible “do you?” at the end of the sentence.)

“No, but I don’t want anyone to hear I’m taking an interest in her movements. It might make the killer nervous, and I don’t want anyone else thrown from a height.”

Robin could hear her own heart thumping through the thin material of her dressing gown. She knew that he would not tell her who he thought the killer was; she was even a little frightened of knowing, notwithstanding the fact that she could think of nothing else.

It was she who had called Strike. Hours had passed since she had received a text saying that he had been compelled to go with the police to Scotland Yard, and asking her to lock up the office behind her at five. Robin had been worried.

“Call him, then, if it’s going to keep you awake,” Matthew had said; not quite snapping, not quite indicating that he was, without knowing any of the details, firmly on the side of the police.

“Listen, I want you to do something for me,” said Strike. “Call John Bristow first thing tomorrow and tell him about Rochelle.”

“All right,” said Robin, with her eyes on the large stuffed elephant Matthew had given her on their first Valentine’s Day together, eight years previously. The present-giver himself was watching Newsnight in the sitting room. “What are you going to be doing?”

“I’m going to be on my way to Pinewood Studios for a few words with Freddie Bestigui.”